


The Red and the Black

by theparadoxicalfox



Series: Royal Flush [4]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood Loss, Bullet wound, Death, Description of wounds, Gen, Knife Wounds, let's get through the gore warnings first:, ok some more warnings:, opiate use (medical painkiller), swearing (in Italian)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 02:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxicalfox/pseuds/theparadoxicalfox
Summary: Remember that everyone and everything is connected.





	The Red and the Black

**Author's Note:**

> Hover over italicized foreign language text for translations. (mobile and tablet users, please see the ending notes)
> 
> Set in early October of 1921.
> 
> Optional listening: [click here!](https://open.spotify.com/album/5rOCiZaYB9hHzsclQEm09x)
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a lovely autumn day: the wind was brisk and biting, the sun was bright and just a little warm, and small white clouds skidded across the sky.

PJ leapt nimbly to the side to allow a trundling automobile by, tipping his hat and grinning at the passengers. It was a good day today, and it wouldn’t hurt to spread some of his cheer.

He’d left one other _capo_ back at the house, with firm instructions to send a runner if anything arose. Otherwise, he knew Matthias would handle everything perfectly well. The third was off doing business with some associates.

He felt bad sneaking off and abandoning his responsibilities, but this morning he’d taken one look outside and knew he’d have to slip off at some point during the day. Of course, one of the boys was trailing him: Joshua. (Or Gunner, or whatever the boy was going by today.) It was likely by the godfather’s request—and he could give the boy the slip, but he wanted to see just how well this one would do.

That way when he returned from his leisurely break for dinner, he could give the _giovanotto_ a thorough chewing out. Then do the same with whoever was training the latest batch of youngsters.

A few blocks later PJ rounded the corner onto one of the North End’s busier streets. It was already well past noon; the dinner crowd was filling the sidewalks—and soon, the _ristoranti_ all around. No matter. He attended his favourite _ristorante_ often enough, and they knew to save him a good seat.

The door of Ramo d’Olivo was propped open, as it always was at this hour (so long as the weather permitted it). A steady stream of patrons warranted this, and anyway, the brick ovens in the back did more than enough to keep the autumn chill at bay.

It was a fine day, though, and PJ didn’t want to miss a moment of it. He caught a _cameriera_ by the elbow, his smile charming and eyes kind.

“You wouldn’t happen to have the rooftop deck empty, now would you?”

Her smile was bright. “Of course, _signore!_ Just head right up, you know where the stairs are—the usual, yes?”

He nodded, then just before she turned away, he tightened his grip.

“I would appreciate it immensely if you kept the deck empty,” he told her lightly, even as his eyes held her just as tightly as his hand. “I will compensate any loss you get from having to turn away customers.”

“Oh, no need, _signore_ , we could never accept it. Only…” she trailed off. Or perhaps, her murmured words had been hidden in the dinner-hour cacophony.

PJ tilted his head, and her eyes dipped momentarily.

“There is a man up there,” she said, “waiting to see you. He called you his _amico d’infanzia_ , but also said you would not be expecting him, _signore_. He said he would like for his arrival to be a surprise, but he felt… he felt dangerous.” Her pale throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Sorry, _signore_ , I just thought you’d like to know.”

He released her arm and smiled gently. “Yes, that is something I’m very glad to know,” he replied. “Perhaps you could tell the kitchen to send up a bottle of wine, but hold off on my food until this man has left.”

She nodded briskly and disappeared into the crowd. For a moment PJ stood there, then turned to the back corner and climbed the narrow, bright staircase.

It was good the staff would know to keep everyone away from the deck. He particularly didn’t want the young, fresh-faced boy tailing him to run into whatever trouble he was about to encounter.

Then he stepped out onto the rooftop porch, and while the sun was just as bright, it was no longer warm.

A man sat at the farthest table, his back to the entrance, gazing out across the rooftops. Next to him was the wall of vines, sheltering one side from the wind. Some of the leaves were still browned from the summer’s heat. They would all fall off soon enough.

The man turned as PJ approached, a wide grin stretching his face apart.

“My friend!” he cried out, standing to face PJ. “ _Il mio amico d’infanzia._ It has been far too long, wouldn’t you say? But I’m back!”

PJ had a carefully set smile on his face. “Your Italian is better, at least, after all these years,” he remarked, gesturing to the chairs. “Please, sit. I’m having a bottle of wine brought up.”

“ _Cosa stai dicendo? Il mio italiano è perfetto!_ ”

PJ snorted. “ _Non direi perfetto,_ ” he replied as he dropped into his seat.

Something flickered in the backs of the man’s eyes, but it vanished before PJ could identify the emotion.

“So, how long has it been?” PJ began, leaning back into the comfortable cushioned seat. “Five years? No, ten? Longer?”

“Eleven years,” the man said as he settled down, “or nearing twelve now, I guess. You have to tell me everything, Pa-”

“Don’t call me that,” PJ said calmly, his eyes hard and cold. “Wald, don’t you even dare call me that.”

A slow smile crept across Wald’s face. “Alright, fair enough. What do you go by around here, then? Don’t tell me it’s Liguori. That was the name your _bisnonno_ went by. The one who founded the mafia here—which, if I heard right, you are a distinct part of,” he leaned forwards as he spoke, “and that is something you never told me.”

“Yes, well, Wald, how exactly was I supposed to do that? You left no mailing address, no way to contact you- nothing! You just left.”

“I had to leave, PJ,” Wald enunciated each sound with a vicious scorn, and PJ realized with a start—he hadn’t told Wald his name. Just as he hadn’t told him his involvement with the Family, something he went to great pains to hide. “I had to leave, to hide. Because in case if you’ve forgotten,” Wald’s fist rose up from underneath the table—was that a knife?—and thrust the blade of a knife into the wood, “I was going to be the one to blame for the murder, and not you. It would never be you, even if you were caught with the blood still coating your skin, because you were a Liguori, and a Liguori does nothing wrong.”

PJ looked over Wald’s shoulder at the _cameriera_ just exiting the stairwell.

“ _Sta ‘zitto,_ ” he snapped, “and put your knife away.” Adopting a calm look he smiled at the approaching waitress. “The wine is here— _grazie._ ”

“Of course, _signori._ ” The waitress smiled, and presented the wine. Wald sat back as PJ went through the customary inspection and taste, and at his nod she poured their glasses, then left the bottle on their table. Her brown eyes dipped to the fresh scar in the woodgrain before she turned and left.

The two of them waited for a moment after, until they were sure she had left.

“Wine, hmm? Prohibition doesn’t seem to be a problem with you, then.”

“Is that what this is about?” PJ hissed, ignoring Wald’s comment. “That decade-old death, which was an accident, by the way-”

“We both know it wasn’t an accident,” Wald spoke over PJ, the man’s bright blue eyes flashing. “You could have stopped it. You could have stopped me.”

“So could you!” PJ shouted, slamming a hand onto the table. He pressed his lips together, and took a breath. “So could you. Both of us could have… but we didn’t. And that’s something we’re going to have to live with.”

“Live with?” He chuckled, then took a delicate sip of the wine, humming his appreciation. “Live with. Oh, PJ, I have no problem with the death. You know this.” Wald stared at PJ. “You’ve known this since we were _bambini_. There are very few people whose lives I care about, and for the longest time you were on the top of that list.”

PJ placed both of his hands on the table, weaving his fingers together. “What are you saying, Wald?” His tone was quiet, careful. He was treading in a minefield, and he didn’t have a map.

“I’m saying-” and Wald lunged forwards, grabbed one of PJ’s wrists and pulled his arm out, then plunged his knife deep into the meat of his upper arm. “I’m saying,” he continued, talking over PJ’s cries, “That it’s about bloody time you paid the price of the years I’ve lost on the run.” With a cruel grin he twisted the knife, and PJ bit his scream off. He could not have anyone come up here. They would die.

He may die.

“Here you’ve been, in good old Boston, practically running the Liguori mafia. You’ve been rolling in dough, or at least you’ve been well off enough to develop a taste for fine suits.” With a sneer of disgust Wald pulled the knife out, wiping the blade on PJ’s coat sleeve.

“You have power, now. Real power! Not just a name to hide behind.” He was standing now, leaning over PJ, who was lying on the table with one arm extended. The other hand—the one that wasn’t trapped in Wald’s vice grip—was pressing against the fresh wound. Blood had soaked through his shirt, his jacket, and now the warmth was beginning to seep through his coat.

Walt dipped even lower, so his breath tickled PJ’s ear. So his voice could be clearly heard over PJ’s whimpers.

“I want that power of yours, PJ,” he crooned. “And you’re going to give it to me.”

“You’re mad,” PJ choked out, “and you know I can’t do that. You don’t have a drop of Italian blood in you, no matter how well you speak the language. And if you kill me, there’s no chance you’ll get even an ounce of the power I’ve gained over the years. The Family will never let you in. The most you’ll ever be is an associate—but know this: now that you’ve threatened a Liguori _caporegime_ , there’s no chance in hell you’ll be dealing with our Family.”

He tugged at his wrist, trying to get free.

“There’s no chance in hell I’m getting out of Boston alive,” Wald said amicably, tightening his grip even further. PJ bit his lip and tasted blood as the bones in his wrist ground together. “Not if I let you loose. So, I’m sorry, PJ. I really liked you. You were my friend, through all the shit we went through as kids. But I’m gonna have to kill you, now.”

PJ began to struggle in earnest, thrashing against Wald’s grip. Their wine glasses, mostly untouched, slipped to the ground and shattered. The liquid stained the stone with red, and the fragments of glass glistened in the sun.

Walt actually laughed at PJ’s attempts. Then, quickly, he released PJ’s first arm and grabbed the second. This time the tip of the blade bit into bone as it sliced through his arm, and PJ choked on his howl of pain.

As PJ curled over his arms, hunched in his seat, Wald circled around the table to stand behind him. Grabbing a fistful of hair he pulled PJ’s head back, then ducked down to whisper in his ear.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked yet, how I knew you’d be here. How I knew your new name, and who you are in the mafia.”

He drew back, and PJ knew he was smiling.

“It’s the same reason why I’m willing to kill you, rather than use you to get your power. My place is guaranteed. I’ll be getting what I want, without your help. I just have to kill you first. Get you out of the way.”

Realization felt like a third stab wound, except this one was to his gut. “The other _capo,_ ” PJ wheezed. “He’s been trying to undermine me for months. Santoro wants new blood, wants to let half-blooded men into the family. But you’re not-“

“Oh, but I am,” Wald sounded bitter, but triumphant. “I know who my father is now, _fratello._ ”

_Fratello._ It almost wasn’t a surprise. PJ felt the cold kiss of the blade again his throat; he felt his hands shake and his fingers grow numb.

He was going to die here, today.

It was a good day, at least. The wind was brisk and biting, the sun was bright, and small white clouds skidded across the sky.

A faint gunshot. A rifle, and Wald’s dead body slumped over PJ’s shoulder, his blue eyes reflecting the sky.

It must have been a few minutes before PJ moved. With a barely contained sob he pushed the still-warm body off of him, and the weight hit the stone floor with a solid thump.

There was the entrance wound: his left temple. The exit wound was larger, more noticeable. He could see shards of bone in amongst all the red.

The blood was mixing with the wine. It was going to take a good deal of scrubbing to get the stain out of the floor.

PJ stood, and his own blood dripped from his fingers. He couldn’t quite feel those on his left. That wasn’t good.

There were footsteps on the outside stairs; the ones that wrapped around the outer wall and ended in the back courtyard. No one used those.

He turned. “No, don’t come up here,” he murmured.

A man with a rifle slung across his back appeared over the screen of vines. Fumbling with the latch for a moment he entered, then turned to face PJ.

“Oh, good,” the man said with a grin, “you’re not dead yet. I was hoping I wasn’t too late.”

He had a faint Irish accent. Really, not anything noticeable. Something you’d pick up after spending a few years around those who really had it. But nonetheless, even in his blood-loss induced hazy-minded state, PJ felt a lance of suspicion dart through his mind.

“I’m not here to finish off his job,” the man continued, walking up to PJ with his hands held out. “Although I’m sure my previous boss would have loved me for it.

“The name’s Jordan Maron,” he said, “and I would shake your hand, but I think before I can do that you need some patching up.”

“I…” PJ wobbled on his feet. “Yeah.”

Maron looked at the small pools of blood accumulating on the stone under PJ’s hands. Then he moved right up to PJ and began taking his coat off.

“I need to look at the wounds,” he explained as PJ hissed at the pain. He threw the coat to the side, and PJ winced. It was a good coat. Heavy wool. A lovely dye. And, most importantly, it was comfortable. It was so hard to find comfortable coats these days.

Before he could voice any sort of complaint, however—and he was getting rather slow at forming thoughts, too, wasn’t he?—Maron had stripped him of his suit jacket, and was holding PJ’s left arm by the elbow.

“This one’s worse,” he stated. “It was the first one, right? The one he twisted the knife into?”

PJ swallowed against the rising bile in his throat. He nodded.

“Alright, where-” Maron twisted around and grabbed PJ’s jacket back up off the floor. He withdrew a knife of his own, then cut a strip of fabric off the bottom.

A few minutes later PJ had two tight cuffs of fabric above and over each wound, and his hand was distinctly numb.

“It will help, for now. I need to get you to a hospital—no complaints, you need to go—then find a way to let your mafia friends know what’s going on.”

“But…” PJ rasped, “I… ” There was his tail near by. He had to be close—he’d flay the boy if he wasn’t, because what kind of a tail would he be, then? PJ had to let the godfather know about Wald. He had to tell him about that _capo_. The traitor didn’t deserve to live another day.

“Come on,” Maron said, draping PJ’s bloodied arm over his shoulders and hooking one of his own around PJ’s torso. “Let’s get you to the street, and I’ll hail us a cab.”

He must have blacked out on the way down, because the next moment he was being bundled into a cab. And there was Gunner, staring at him and Maron from across the street.

“Maron,” he croaked, “I need to tell him.” He pointed sharply with his chin out the cab window. “I need to tell him where I’m going. He’ll tell…” PJ blinked dark spots out of his vision. What was he saying?

Oh, right. “He’ll let the boss know… where I am… just need to tell…”

When he came to for the second time, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. His breaths were shallow and quick; his arms were leaden in his lap. His vision kept dipping in and out of darkness, even though it was that same, sunny day.

He was still in the cab, and the cabbie was looking back at him, obviously worried. They weren’t moving. Maron wasn’t in here with him.

It took far too much effort, but he finally managed to turn his head and look out the window. And there Maron was, talking rapidly to the young man, his expression clearly impatient.

PJ woke for the third time in a hospital ward. He was in a bed; the sheets were tucked up under his armpits and his arms were outside. Bandages were wrapped around both, and they were each held against his chest with slings.

The curtain around his bed was mostly closed, but one side had been left open. A wooden chair sat close by. Maron was in it, dozing, his rifle propped against his knee. In one hand he held his knife.

When PJ glanced back up Maron was watching him, a small smile on his face.

“Welcome back,” he said, and PJ smiled in return.

Then he sat up—or tried and failed to, because his arms hurt like hell at that simple movement and whatever opiate he was on only did so much. Instead, PJ settled for craning his neck around, peering through the gaps in the curtain to look at the rest of the room.

“No one else is in here;” Maron supplied, “the nurses moved the other patients out. As soon as we can, we’re going to move you.”

PJ swallowed. His throat was dry.

“Where am I?” he rasped, coughing a little. Struggling to align his thoughts and memories PJ frowned. The closest hospital would have been Mass. General, but… it was in the middle of Russian territory. He couldn’t possibly be in-

“Massachusetts General Hospital. And I know, I know. Russian territory and all. That’s why this room is clear, why I’m sitting here with my rifle and knife, and why we’re moving as soon as possible.” Maron paused. “Apparently your Family struck a deal with… these people called the Faceless? They’ll be sending one of their doctors to a house I have to get you to within a day.”

PJ choked on a breath. The Faceless? The godfather struck a deal with _the Faceless?_

“ _Dannazione,_ ” he muttered, allowing his head to drop back onto the starched pillowcase. No one bothered the Faceless, not for anything. Not unless you were desperate, and needed a hit done quickly, quietly, and with no trace of foul play—or just enough evidence to point at your enemy.

Why would the godfather risk owing the Faceless a debt, all for PJ?

His eyes slid closed, and he snorted softly. He knew why. After the death of… after he was mur- after the accident… _Dio caro, after all these years he still couldn’t think about it! _After the loss of the next in line a decade ago, the Family couldn’t afford to train yet another man. Not after they’d spent so much time and effort on PJ. It was even more important, now that the godfather’s health was beginning to fail.__

____

“When are we moving?” he finally spoke up, hating how weak he sounded.

____

The chair creaked under a shifting weight. He was too tired to look at Maron.

____

“In a few hours, after the croaker- ah, doctor, has checked you over and declared you fit for transport.”

____

“Maron,” he sighed, “I know what a croaker is. I know…”

____

“Well, that’s good,” Maron replied, “I’d hate to have to talk all proper around you. But why don’t you rest a bit more? I’ll wake you when the doc gets here.”

____

Yes, rest. Sleep. It sounded wonderful, to just sink back into-

____

“PJ, wake up,” Maron hissed, tapping the side of his face. Flinching away from the offending hand PJ slit open his eyes. The room was dark, and Maron stood over him, blocking out any light from the hallway.

____

The curtains were still open. It was evening, then.

____

“The doctor never came,” Maron continued under his breath, and the man withdrew from PJ’s vision. A faint creaking sound came closer.

____

A wheelchair.

____

“He never came, and there’s no nurses in the ward. The patients were no help; most are unconscious. I couldn’t risk leaving too long, either; otherwise, I would’ve tried the other wards. Come on,” he tapped PJ lightly on the shoulder, “let’s see if you can get up.”

____

It took him a moment to process everything Maron had just said.

____

“Didn’t come?” he mumbled, louder than he’d meant to. “ _Che cavolo…_ ”

____

“Yeah, yeah, ‘ke ka volo’ or whatever that means, let’s get up,” he said impatiently, stripping the sheets nearly off of the bed.

____

PJ almost had the mind to snort at the pronunciation, only to clamp down on a surprised (and admittedly, pained) whimper as Maron hooked his arms under PJ’s and hefted him bodily from the bed.

____

There was a moment of panic when only the lower half of his legs were on the mattress and the remainder of his bodyweight was entirely supported by this man who was at least half a foot shorter than he was—then there was the jarring sensation of landing unexpectedly on something solid, and he was on the wheelchair.

____

“You could have warned me,” PJ wheezed indignantly, taking a moment to adjust his hospital gown as best he could. Already he could tell that having both of his arms in slings was not going to make his life any easier.

____

“I could have,” Maron replied softly, leaning into the wheelchair to start it moving forward. The wooden parts creaked and the metal bits squeaked, but all in all it was pretty comfortable.

____

They moved through the hallway and stopped at the elevator. Maron jabbed at the call button a few times, until it lit up.

____

As a mechanical whirring issued behind the doors PJ grimaced, and spoke up.

____

“I think the painkiller is wearing off.”

____

Maron exhaled loudly. “Finally. Do you know how many times you woke up in that hospital bed, asking for… hell, I don’t know. Some childhood pet, or something? You were high as a kite, muttering about “Wiggles” and how sorry you were, and how you just wish it could go back to how things were.”

____

PJ made a strangled sound just as the elevator doors opened. “I… don’t remember any of that,” he said eventually, blinking a few times. Now it wasn’t only his mouth that was dry; his eyes were, too.

____

“I figured as much,” Maron replied as he wheeled PJ into the small elevator, “since you had pinpricks for eyes and a loose tongue in your mouth. I know the effects of morphine.”

____

After humming a response the two of them remained quiet, staring at the dial as it counted through the floors. What would have otherwise been a faint ding flooded the small space, and the doors slid open.

____

Maron edged past PJ and his wheelchair to poke his head around the corner. Withdrawing quickly, he muttered a few curses and shook his head.

____

“So your doctor’s down the hall,” he explained quietly, “talking to what looks like a Russian chopper squad. We’ll have to move towards them a bit. The exit is between us and them.”

____

PJ yawned. _Porca miseria,_ he was tired. Maybe they could just go back up to his room, and he could crawl back under the covers and get a few more hours of sleep. The Russians would be gone by then.

____

He blinked. What was he thinking—of course they wouldn’t be. They were here to blow him down. And what a strike to the Liguoris that would be: one of their own _caporegime_ , gunned down in a hospital, upsetting the already unsteady balance between the crime families.

____

PJ shifted in the wheelchair, grimacing as his wounds throbbed painfully.

____

“ _Andiamo,_ ” he said, “let’s go.”

____

Maron first checked the strap of his rifle, making sure it was snug against his back. Then he gripped the handles of the wheelchair, muttered something that could have been a prayer under his breath, and moved them forward.

____

PJ kept his gaze locked on the floor passing underneath. He wasn’t going to draw any attention to the two of them by staring. Right now, the tiles were the most important, most interesting thing in his life-

____

“Damnit,” Maron growled, and picked up the pace. They were nearly at the small foyer, nearly at the exit, but PJ could hear rushed footsteps echo down the hall towards them.

____

He risked a glance up. It was the doctor.

____

“Excuse me, sir!” the man called out, a hand outstretched as though it would stop Maron. “Sir, you can’t remove a patient from the premises. Has he been released? I need to see the papers.”

____

PJ glanced behind the doctor. Two of the Russians were strolling down the hall, making no attempts to hide their guns. But the others were holding back, and that was what really worried him.

____

“You know damn well why we’re leaving.” Maron glared at the doctor, who visibly winced under his gaze. “Now step aside, before I make you.”

____

“Look, please, just do as I say. They said they won’t hurt you or your friend, so long as you cooperate-”

____

Maron laughed harshly, making the doctor jump. The two Russians were now only a few doors down; pretty soon it would be too late to avoid a conflict.

____

“And how much scratch did they pass over, for you to allow them their firearms in this hospital? How much more did they bribe you with, just so they could waltz in here and then walk right out with a patient under your care?”

____

The doctor had paled, and he adjusted his eyeglasses with a trembling hand. “The money will be used for research,” he began, “and for buying new equipment and beds and medication.”

____

“We’ll take it from here,” one of the Russians said, placing a heavy hand on the doctor’s shoulder, “go see to your patients, and remember what we told you.”

____

The doctor stood there, frozen, then turned and hurried off, glancing over his shoulder as he disappeared around a corner.

____

“Very good,” the second Russian spoke, his voice distinctly accented, “now please, give us this gentleman and we will go. No harm towards you, we don’t want to fight.”

____

“If you don’t want to fight, why bring your guns?” Dimly, PJ could hear Maron unfasten the clasp on his knife sheath. He let his eyes slide shut, knowing what was coming next.

____

“We like to be prepared, just as you seem-”

____

The man’s next words were cut off with a gurgle, and PJ felt something wet and warm spray across his face. He flinched, but remained quiet, even as the body hit the floor and the distinct sound of a blade sinking into flesh for a second time seemed to echo in the too-quiet hallway.

____

Then the shouts started up, and he could hear the second body slump to the floor. All of a sudden Maron was behind him, yanking the wheelchair around and heading very quickly for the exit. PJ debated on opening his eyes, but the nausea he’d experienced from the sudden turn only became worse at the sight of the floor slipping quickly under his feet.

____

So he kept his eyes closed—that is, until they burst out into the cold evening air, and the chill stripped away every last bit of drowsiness that had been clouding his mind. PJ sucked in a breath, doubling over. Now, with his mind clear, he could feel the pain of his wounds with startling clarity. His right arm was agony, but his left was worse, and he couldn’t feel his hand, and he was going to lose his whole arm, wasn’t he-

____

They turned a corner and Maron struggled to halt the wheelchair. He knelt down in front of PJ, the worry on his face just visible in the dim gaslight.

____

“PJ, calm down, you’re breathing too fast. Calm down. What’s wrong.”

____

“What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’?” PJ shouted, or tried to. It ended up coming out much too hoarse to sound as outraged as he felt. “I have been stabbed by someone who I thought was an old friend, then I woke up in a hospital on Russian territory, with them breathing down our necks—and you ask me what is wrong? _Porca puttana!_ ”

____

Maron stood, his face unreadable.

____

“I’ve been doing my best, in these circumstances,” he said quietly. He circled around to the back of the wheelchair again, and pushed PJ forwards. “I’ve killed a man for you. He would have taken your life if I hadn’t taken his. I brought you to this hospital, and I’ve remained as your guard. I’ve communicated with your mafia friends, knowing that as soon as one person doesn’t like what I have to say, I’ll be the one with a bullet through the brain.”

____

They turned another corner, speeding up again. The shouts and footsteps of the other Russians were getting closer, but they still had time. It was a wonder Maron was able to control the wheelchair over the cobblestones, and avoid the worst of it even between the lit areas under the street lamps. 

____

Actually, under any other circumstance this whole ordeal would have been quite amusing.

____

“So,” Maron continued, his voice a little breathy, “please forgive me if I try to extend an olive branch, here. Sure, asking how you were doing wasn’t the smartest thing-” PJ snorted at this- “but I’m trying to keep my head on my shoulders, and keep on your good side.”

____

PJ stifled a cry as they rattled over a rough patch of cobblestones. He could really use some more morphine, to take away this thrice-damned agony in his arms.

____

“Fair enough,” he forced out through gritted teeth, “I suppose even someone from the Irish mob can have reason on their side now and again.”

____

Maron was quiet for a moment. “How did you know I worked with the mob?” His voice was careful, only politely curious, even as he panted harshly.

____

“I heard they were missing their main sharp-shooter a week ago.” PJ paused as they whipped around another corner, and wished—not for the first time—that he had the hands to grip onto the arm rests. “So I put two and two together. Also, you have a slight Irish accent.”

____

He didn’t hear if Maron replied. A large automobile, all black, swung around the corner ahead of them, its headlights spotlighting Maron and PJ as they raced down the street. Behind them, half a block away, the Russians appeared, and began to fire. The automobile swerved up to the two of them—for a moment PJ thought the driver had been hit by a stray bullet, and now they would die by this hunk of careening metal—and two men jumped out as it halted, each wearing strange, full-face masks.

____

“What took you so long?” one man, his dark mask painted with the face of an owl, snapped.

____

“Get him into the back,” the other one instructed, “we’ll take care of these palookas.” His mask gleamed a deep red in the gaslight, and when he turned back to face the approaching Russians, PJ could see a distinct black mark over the right eye.

____

The two masked men had guns. Guns, that they then pointed at him and Maron- no. Past them, at the Russians, and the strange men were shooting back.

____

Russians were dropping, while their bullets weren’t hitting their targets. He and Maron were actually going to survive this, PJ realized as Maron opened the back door to the automobile.

____

“I’ll need to lift you in,” Maron told PJ, and heaved him off the wheelchair. He slid sideways into the back and landed on an arm. The last thing he remembered before passing out was screaming in pain... and Maron leaning over him, his face hidden in shadow—everything but his eyes, which gleamed in the lamplight as they stretched wide with panic.

____

—————

____

PJ stood at the window, staring down at his cup and the surface of the dark liquid as it shivered within. The white light from outside played along the subtle ripples, dancing like ribbons of silver.

____

He released a sigh as he eased the cup back onto its saucer, lips pressing tightly as it rattled.

____

“It’s going to take time,” Jordan said softly as he joined PJ at the window.

____

“I know.”

____

They looked out at the lawn: at the ground covered by snow, and the dark skeletal branches of every bush and tree, each holding up its own mimic in white. Large flakes fell steadily, floating through the air.

____

“It’s supposed to keep going into tomorrow.” Jordan sipped at his own cup, the steam wreathing across his face.

____

“I’m still going home.” PJ’s voice, though quiet, was firm.

____

“Yeah, Peej,” Jordan replied, his voice holding a sort of resigned amusement, “I know. I know you are.”

____

A long moment passed, full of comfortable silence.

____

“You’re finding your place as an associate favourable?”

____

Jordan glanced over at PJ, an eyebrow raised.

____

“I don’t know. ‘Favourable’? I guess so—I mean, they treat me well enough, and after the Faceless let you talk to the godfather over the telephone to reassure him about a dozen times you were sure I wasn’t still with the Irish… it’s been easier. They’re starting to respect me.” He snorted, and shook his head. “Really, all it took for the rest of them was a few trick shots with my rifle, and they were sold.”

____

PJ hummed. There were a lot of young men in the Family who appreciated skill with a gun, especially if said skill could be shown off like prize horseflesh at the fair. It was probably a good thing, though, that Jordan still spent so much time around PJ. Jordan Maron was still, after all, the only connection the Faceless would allow between himself and the Family.

____

“I also managed to convince the godfather, even further, that I wasn’t here to undermine the Family by pointing out how many times I risked my life for yours—and have continued to do so, in these past two… wait, no.” Jordan paused, frowning. “Almost three months, now.”

____

“Yes, well,” PJ said with a grin, “luckily, it was only the first day where you had to put your life on the line for me.”

____

Jordan glared at him, but his eyes glimmered with a hidden smile.

____

“So you’re telling me that in the days of surgery, and the weeks of crucial recovery time—if you kicked off at any of those times, that I wouldn’t find myself in the Charles, wearing a new pair of concrete boots?”

____

PJ opened his mouth, then seemed to reconsider.

____

“I… see what you mean,” he amended, “and I suppose that’s yet another thing to thank the Faceless for.”

____

“What?”

____

“Well, not only have they saved my arms and my hand, and possibly even my life,” PJ said as he took a sip from his cup, smiling into the drink, “they’ve saved the life of a very good friend of mine. I’d say that’s something to be thankful for.”

____

Jordan ducked his head, half-hiding a pleased grin.

____

The two men stood side by side, dark silhouettes against the window, and watched the snow fall.

____

**Author's Note:**

> Translations in order of appearance (only first occurrence listed):
> 
> Capo: caporegime/captain rank in the mafia  
> Giovanotto: young man  
> Ristoranti: restaurants  
> Ristorante: restaurant  
> Cameriera: waitress  
> Signore: sir  
> Amico d'infanzia: childhood friend  
> Il mio amico d’infanzia: my childhood friend  
> Cosa stai dicendo? Il mio italiano è perfetto!: What are you saying? My Italian is perfect!  
> Non direi perfetto: I wouldn't say perfect  
> Bisnonno: great-grandfather  
> Sta ‘zitto: shut up  
> Grazie: thank you  
> Signori: sirs  
> Bambini: children  
> Fratello: brother  
> Dannazione: god damnit  
> Dio caro: dear god  
> Che cavolo: what the hell/damn  
> Porca miseria: damn  
> Andiamo: let's go  
> Porca puttana!: fucking hell!
> 
> (if anyone has better translations for either language, let me know via comments here or in my ask box on tumblr! you can find me @theparadoxicalfox)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you so much for reading <3


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